“I have, indeed,” replied Mr. Ludgrove gravely. “The papers contain little beyond the bare facts, but I gather that this unfortunate Mr. Martin was undoubtedly murdered?”
“I’m afraid so,” replied the Inspector. “And I fancy by the same hand which committed the previous murders. We found a typed letter on him, suggesting that he should call at Number 407, which had been posted in this district, and there was a counter bearing the number IV lying by his side. You don’t happen to know anything about this Mr. Martin, I suppose?”
Mr. Ludgrove shook his head. “I understand that he left Praed Street fifteen years ago,” he replied. “That was long before I came here. In those days I was leading a very quiet life in Devonshire.” He paused, and a curious look of sadness came into his eyes, as of some painful memory. Then he continued briskly, as if ashamed of his momentary lapse. “I daresay that Mr. Copperdock remembers him, he has a wonderful memory for everybody who has ever lived in the neighbourhood.”
Inspector Whyland’s eyes contracted slightly as he replied. “Yes, he remembers him all right. They did a certain amount of business together, he tells me. In fact, Mr. Copperdock is the only person about here who will admit to knowing anything about this fellow Martin.”
“Well, I suppose that we are all under suspicion once more,” said Mr. Ludgrove, with a kindly smile. “No, Inspector, it’s no use protesting; I know exactly how I should look at the matter if I were in your place. Until you have some definite clue to the perpetrator of the crimes, the whole neighbourhood is equally guilty in your eyes. I may say that I left here about one o’clock on Saturday, caught the 1.55 from Fenchurch, spent the day in Essex, and did not return until after dark. Not, I gather, that an alibi is much use in this case, since it appears that this Mr. Martin was alone in the house, in any event.”
“I wish everybody in Praed Street would deal with me as frankly as you have, Mr. Ludgrove,” replied Whyland. “There seems to be a sort of dread in the minds of most of them that the police will in some way take advantage of everything they say. Take Copperdock, for example. I’ve been talking to him, and he tells me he was at the Cambridge Arms for half an hour or so some time between one and two. Yet neither he nor his son will tell me exactly what time he left his shop or returned to it. They didn’t notice, they say.”
“Mr. Copperdock is not blessed with a very exact mind,” said Mr. Ludgrove soothingly. “You remember the curious incident of his meeting with the black sailor some time ago. By the way, I suppose that rather intangible person has not yet appeared in connection with the present case, has he? Although nearly everybody whom I have seen this evening has some theory to account for the facts, I have so far heard no reference to the black sailor.”
Inspector Whyland smiled as he rose to take his departure. “I’m so certain that the black sailor will never be found that I would willingly double the reward out of my own pocket,” he said. “He’s a myth, originating in the fertile imagination of that young scoundrel Wal Snyder. Well, good night, Mr. Ludgrove. Let me know if you hear any useful hint, won’t you?”
It was not until he was some yards down the street that he laughed shortly to himself. “That old chap suspects Copperdock as much as I do,” he muttered. “But if it is Copperdock, what the devil is his game, I wonder?”